


night creatures call and the dead start to walk in their masquerade

by jugheadjones



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Multi, Slutty Halloween Costumes, halloween party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 19:23:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16248224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugheadjones/pseuds/jugheadjones
Summary: In which Fred and FP are dorky Halloween boyfriends and everyone has a spooktacular night.





	night creatures call and the dead start to walk in their masquerade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bisexualfpjones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualfpjones/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY BRIANA!! I'm sorry that these spooky hijinks came so late but I hope you enjoy them and that they even somewhat live up to the beautiful prompt you gifted me with! You are my best friend ever and I can't wait until we do our slutty Fred and FP costumes one year!

“I’m not going!” 

The bedroom door closes with a bang, and FP glances at his watch before heaving a disappointed sigh. It was about fifteen minutes past the time they’d agreed to leave for the Lodges’ Halloween party. He films a few seconds of the closed door on Snapchat and sends it to Mary with the caption:  _ He’s mad at me. _

“Freddie,” he calls sweetly through the wood, rapping on the door with his knuckles. “Open up. I want to see you.” 

Fred’s voice issues back through the door. “FP, I can’t go out in this. This isn’t real clothes.” 

“If you’re worried about being cold, I’ll lend you my jacket.” 

“I wouldn’t have to worry about being cold if you didn’t dress me like--”

FP pushes slowly against the door, letting it swing open just a crack. He’s grinning. “Like what?” 

Fred’s grouchy face suddenly appears in the crack of the door, his hand darting out to interrupt it from opening any further. “You know like what.” 

“Baby, let me see.” FP shoves a hand in the crack of the door and tries to push it open. Fred resists.

“No, you’re going to take a picture-” 

“Let me see!” 

“No!” 

The push and pull with the door continues for a moment, and then Fred wins out, slamming it hard enough into the frame to make the house rattle. FP glances down at Mary’s reply. 

Mary Andrews:  _ What did you make him wear?  _

FP sags against the door, texting Mary a quick picture of the costume he’d ordered. “I hate to do this, Fred, but you lost the bet.” 

Fred’s evidently gone into sulk mode, and doesn’t reply. 

“Whoever lost the bet had to let the other one pick out their Halloween costume. You vetoed all my other ideas. I thought you liked this one.” 

“That’s because all your other ideas involved wearing a jockstrap and nothing else.” 

“Well, I don’t see the problem.” His phone buzzes with texts, and he glances down. 

Mary Andrews: _nice._

Mary Andrews: _u going to tap that?_

The door suddenly jerks open, and FP has to rebalance himself quickly to keep from falling over. Fred stands in front of him, arms folded, using the stern voice he usually saves for when Archie’s in trouble. 

“FP, I am  _ not _ wearing this out in public.” 

Beaming, FP steps back to take him in. Fred’s bare chest is covered only by a tartan sash that runs diagonally from his shoulder to his hip. It’s pinned in place at the waistband of the very short Scottish kilt he’s wearing above knee socks and leather shoes. A small black sporran on a leather belt and a tartan hat with an enormous white feather complete the look. 

“You look great!” FP spreads his arms wide, a smug grin taking over his face. 

Fred just huffs and storms back into the bedroom. FP catches up at him in front of the full-length mirror, wrapping his arms around him and pinning him in place. 

“Come on, you think you’re going to be the only one in the sexy costume?” FP nibbles his earlobe, neatly dodging the elbow that Fred swings backward toward his solar plexus. 

“FP, people I  _ know  _ are there. People I work with.” 

“No one’s going to judge you.” 

“It’s embarrassing.” 

“Would I embarrass you? Would I?” FP waits to get elbowed again, and when Fred doesn’t move he nuzzles back into his neck, running his hands down his bare chest and over the waistband of his kilt. Gently, he adjusts the sash until it hides the rough pink scar left from Fred’s bullet wound. Fred watches him do it in the reflection, shaking his head. 

“I can’t believe you spent money on this.” 

FP decides not to tell him that Mary had sent him her credit card number. “It was on sale.” 

Fred reads between the lines. “I can’t believe you five-finger discounted an entire costume. From the sex shop no less.” 

“It wasn’t from the sex shop.” 

“Where else would this come from?” 

“How about you just trust me.” FP runs a hand down Fred’s muscular thighs, admiring the firm golden skin under his hands. Fred turns around to face him and abruptly leans up into a kiss, resting a hand on each of FP’s shoulders before moving them down to toy with his belt buckle. 

“We could have our own party right here, you know,” he murmurs. 

FP grins into Fred’s lips. “Nice try. We’re going.” 

“Jerk.” Fred grouches, squirming out of FP’s grip and storming out into the hall. “Go by yourself!” 

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait-” FP protests quickly, following him down the hall and reaching for his bare shoulder. Fred shakes him off. “What if I let you choose me a costume.” 

Fred pauses. 

“Anything,” FP offers, regretfully mentally abandoning the prop chainsaw he’d coated with fake blood before dinner. “It can be embarrassing.” 

Fred’s back is to him, but FP can see him thinking it over. Finally, Fred turns with a mischevious, little boy’s smile on his face. 

“And you’d wear it?”

“Yeah, if you wear yours.” FP grins at him. “Whatever you can find left at the costume store. Promise.” 

* * *

“This is proof I’ll do anything for you,” says FP thirty minutes later, trudging down Main Street in a cheap pair of spandex pants and a crop top. “And just for the record, sexy football player is probably the most unoriginal costume you could have chosen.” 

Fred, wrapped in FP’s Serpent jacket over his kilt, is smiling. “I like it.” 

FP tries and fails to hide a smile. “You just like remembering what I used to do to you after games.” 

“Hard to forget.” Fred halts quickly as FP steps off the road. “You’re not going that way, are you?” 

“Why? It’s quicker.” 

“But-” Fred turns to look down Main Street before glancing anxiously back at where FP’s standing. Rather than throw the party in the Pembroke, the Lodges had either rented or purchased an old house at the edge of town. One easily accessed through one of Riverdale’s private graveyards. “There are no lights.” 

“And there are dead people, is that it?” 

“I’m not scared,” says Fred boldly, even though FP knows he’s lying. “I just think we should stick to the road. It’s paved. It’ll be quicker.”

“Come on.” FP offers him his arm. “We’re late already. And the sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave.” 

* * *

The moonlight is enough to see by as they work their way along the path that leads through the middle of the cemetery. The sky is cloudy, but wisps of it slip only occasionally over the bright white of the moon so that the bundles of flowers on each grave glow an eerie iridescent white. A bit of mist hangs over the chilly ground, swirling around their ankles as they walk. FP can sense Fred hanging a little closer to his side, and he smiles to himself. They’re far enough from the street now that the only sound is pebbles crunching under their feet. 

“Hey,” FP speaks up, “remember the time Alice dared us to spend the night in this graveyard?” 

Fred laughs nervously. “Yeah. We did it for five dollars. And we were both convinced it was haunted because we heard all these sounds-” 

“And it was Penelope having sex with some Central boy on a fucking tomb!”

Fred grins and then hides it. “Remember when we egged Hiram’s car?!” 

“Yeah, and TP’d his locker.” FP grins. “Remember when you were costume shopping with Hermione and I stole your clothes while you were in the changeroom?” 

Fred groans. “That sucked, for the record.” 

“Tough.” FP runs a hand down the number 69 on his chest. It was hard to tell if the number was an unfortunate coincidence or a deliberate dirty joke. “You know, I had my Evil Dead costume all ready to go.” 

Fred turns to him with a grin, and in their closeness, the amusement on his face is even warmer and more dazzling. Lame as his costume was, FP knows he’d do anything the world over to make Fred light up like that. 

“You wore that last year,” Fred argues, mischief in his eyes. “You don’t want to wear it again.” 

“Yeah, I’d rather be in the cheapest spandex known to man,” says FP, rolling his eyes. They’re almost through the graveyard, and he can’t resist reaching out and tapping on Fred’s opposite shoulder. Fred turns his head and FP whisks his hand back. 

“Not funny,” Fred says, facing front again. 

“What?” asks FP, playing dumb. 

“Touching my shoulder.” 

“I’m not touching you!” 

Fred glances nervously over his shoulder again and shrinks a little closer to FP’s side. “I know you did.” 

“Fred, I did not tap you.” 

“Dumb ass!” Fred socks him hard in the middle of his exposed stomach. “I didn’t say  _ tapped. _ ” 

“Fred,” groans FP, clutching his stomach, but Fred’s already taken off running, his dress shoes crunching on the graveyard path, his cheap tartan kilt rustling over his bare thighs. 

* * *

The house is an old manor surrounded by whispering maple trees, the front walkway lit by streams of expensive-looking white twinkle lights. Each window is lighted, and the _ Monster Mash _ floats vaguely through the parted curtains. FP hurries his stride, looking forward to grabbing a few fistfuls of whatever candy was available and disappearing with Fred into an upstairs room, but Fred stops suddenly short outside the house and won’t move. 

“What is it?” FP asks. 

“I forgot something.” 

FP rolls his eyes. “What?” 

“I don’t want to go.” 

“Fred,” FP moans, and tugs on his arm. A group of adults dressed as Universal monsters file past them into the house. He tries for Fred’s weak spot. “I bet there’s lots of candy.” 

Fred has his arms nervously folded over his sash. “Isn’t this culturally insensitive?” 

“ _ You’re  _ Scottish, darlin’. Nice try.” 

“Yeah but…” 

FP grabs him by the hand and hauls him along. “Move. There’ll be candy.” 

* * *

Penelope Blossom opens the door, a glass of wine in her hand, dressed in a regal white lace gown with a scoop neck and flowing sleeves. When she sees who’s standing before her she rolls her eyes dramatically, drains the glass of wine, and walks away. 

“Warm welcome,” jokes Fred. 

FP shrugs and guides Fred with a hand in the small of his back. “Can’t say I blame her.” 

The main floor of the house is entirely decorated with ghostly white shrouds, glittery fake cobwebs, and real bone-white candles. Soft yellow and orange light spills onto a polished dance floor, and a long, regal table boasts a huge punch bowl and an assortment of tiny, expensive treats. Their hostess, dressed in a skintight Catwoman outfit that clings like water to every one of her curves, come sprinting up in pencil-thin heels to meet them. 

“Look at you!” Hermione, each finger ending in an incredibly pointy nail, grabs Fred’s hips under the tartan and squeezes. Fred blushes fire-hydrant red all the way down his chest, but smiles. FP types out a quick text to Mary while they’re occupied with each other. 

FP Jones: _Hermione's trying to seduce him already._

Mary sends back _SLUT!_ in all caps with the laughing emoji. FP snorts and stuffs the phone back into the tight waistband of his football pants. 

“FP chose it,” Fred’s saying, the blush still colouring his cheeks. Hermione tosses her glossy hair over her shoulder and turns to FP with a raised eyebrow. 

“Doesn’t leave much to the imagination, does it?” she asks. 

“Imagination’s all you get,” says FP firmly, steering Fred off in the direction of the punch. “We have to go now. Goodbye.” 

* * *

Hiram finds them at the dessert table, where Fred - already hunched into himself after FP had wrestled the Serpent jacket off his back - attempts to sprint away in the opposite direction when he sees him coming. FP quickly stuffs some hors-d'oeuvres in his mouth and tries to follow him. 

“FP.” Hiram’s loud, authoritative voice rings out through the room, his shoes clicking on the marble dance floor as he follows them. FP catches Fred by the fingers and squeezes, impeding his flight. 

“Fp, let me go!” Fred snaps. 

“Fred,” FP hisses as Fred strains against his arm, still trying to escape. “Be nice. We can always egg his car later.” 

“I want to go,” grouches Fred. “I hate this party.” 

“Fred, come on.” 

“Stop!” Fred protests, giving his arm a fierce yank. 

The sound of shoes on marble clicks to a halt and Hiram stands still in front of them, dressed inexplicably in a plain black tuxedo. He looks the two of them up and down for an exaggerated amount of time. FP can feel Fred’s grumpiness climbing by the second. 

“What’s this,” Hiram asks disdainfully at last. “Sexy Macbeth?” 

“Who the fuck played football in Macbeth?” asks FP, stepping half in front of Fred to shelter him a bit. Hiram rolls his eyes. 

“Oh, like you read it.” 

“What are you supposed to be, Hiram?” Fred asks. His voice has gone a little bolder, even though FP knows he still wants to dematerialize on the spot. 

“I’m Bruce Wayne,” says Hiram, like it’s obvious. 

“That costume sucks,” says Fred bluntly, still blushing, with as much dignity as he can muster in a tartan skirt that barely touches his thighs. FP grins. 

Hiram’s nostrils flare, and he draws himself up to his full height. “I really think you two should leave. I really don’t want my party to be used as foreplay for your weird roleplaying activities.” 

FP snorts. “Trust me, Fred feels very un-sexy right now. You want to see weird roleplaying, look at Alice and Hal.” 

Hiram glances partway over his shoulder to where Alice Cooper seems to be dressed in her old Pop’s uniform, and then back again. “At least find a dark corner where my guests won’t have to see you.” 

“Fine.” FP slips an arm around Fred, who’s blushing so furiously that his skin is warm. “It’s a promise. You won’t have to see us for the rest of the night.” 

* * *

“I’m so embarrassed,” says Fred unhappily from his seat on the counter, legs dangling. The two of them have closed themselves off in a black marble bathroom the size of FP’s trailer. “Why don’t you go mingle and I’ll stay here. You can come to get me when you want to leave.” 

“Because that wouldn’t be any fun.” FP produces a paper cup of assorted gummy insects that he’d filled from the banquet table. “Does this cheer you up?” 

Fred whisks it out of his hands and puts a red-and-yellow gummy worm in his mouth. “Maybe,” he offers, chewing. “I still say we should be handing out candy.” 

“We put a bowl out.” 

“With a sign that says ‘take one’” 

“I’m sure they’re taking one.” FP sinks to his knees on the cool bathroom floor and tugs one of Fred’s swinging legs toward him so he can place a kiss on the thigh. 

“FP,” Fred complains. “Wait until I’m done my gummy spiders.” 

“No chance.” FP rises up higher on his knees and trails a line of kisses up his boyfriend’s leg, reaching up to hold his upper thighs in place. He purposely lets his scruff trail against the skin so that it’s sure to tickle. “You should have dressed me as a vampire,” he says, when the crown of his head is pushing up against Fred’s skirt. 

“Why?” asks Fred, rooting out a piece of candy corn from his cup. FP fastens his teeth into the inside of Fred’s thigh in answer, and Fred nearly kicks him in the head.

“Ow!” 

“Sorry baby,” whispers FP huskily, kissing the red mark he’d left and nipping more gently just underneath. He lets his tongue run a trail over the two bite marks, and hears Fred stifle a whimper. Fred’s inner thighs are the most sensitive part of his body. 

“FP-” he hisses, and FP responds with another nip. “Are we really doing this here?” 

Smiling fondly, FP grips both of Fred’s thighs just above the knee and slowly moves his hands up until he’s underneath Fred’s skirt, rubbing the hot skin in gentle circles. “I’d suggest Hiram’s bed, but I don’t know how clean the sheets are.” 

“Been there done that,” says Fred in a deadpan voice, reaching down and moving one of FP’s hands higher up under his skirt. “And don’t talk about Hiram. You’re killing the mood.” FP grins as he skates the hand up higher and higher under the fabric. He hits Fred’s bony hip and pinches him hard there, sliding his hand down the line of his groin before abruptly coming to a stop. 

“Fred?” 

“Yes?” asks Fred innocently, turning his big brown eyes on FP. 

“Are you not wearing anything under this?” 

Fred’s trying and failing to hide a smile, his lips disappearing as he presses them tight together, eyes sparkly with amusement. FP can hear the first beats of  _ Thriller  _ drifting out from the next room. “It’s Scottish tradition, FP.” 

FP’s grin hurts his face. “God, you’re bad.” 

Fred opens his thighs slightly wider in response, and FP turns his attention back to where it’s needed. He adjusts himself on his knees so that his head is under the pleats of Fred’s skirt and grips him just below the hips, nibbling and sucking gently on his skin to make Fred whimper. He works in a steady line up toward Fred’s groin and then reaches up to push his skirt higher, still focused on torturing the sensitive underside of his thigh. 

“Please, FP,” Fred moans, his palms leaving sweaty streaks on the marble. The mirror that his head is pressed up against is growing damp to the touch. “Please. I’m so hard.” 

“What do you say?” FP slides a hand into the painfully tight front of his football pants and strokes himself, planting a scruffy kiss just close enough to Fred’s crotch to hurt. 

“Please?” Fred repeats, a note of urgency in his tone. 

“It’s Halloween,”

Fred rolls his eyes, his voice breathy and hoarse. “Trick or treat, you idiot. But-oh-” He lets out a quiet whine as FP drives his teeth into his thigh again - “--it’d better be a treat.” 

FP grips Fred’s cock in one hand and gently laps at the stiff head with his tongue, running his tongue slowly along the underside before taking Fred fully in his mouth. “Fuck,” Fred moans throatily, hoisting his kilt further up so that FP has full access. “Baby.  _ Fuck. _ ” 

FP bobs his head to take him deeper in his throat, and one of Fred’s hands comes down hard in his hair, mussing up the gel. Fred grabs a fistful of hair and forces FP’s head in closer so that FP almost chokes, hanging on for dear life as FP sucks him off. 

“You’re so good,” moans Fred, the heavy mirror rattling as his head drives back into it, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re so good at this.” FP grips Fred’s thigh, digging his nails in to hold him still. “FP,” he says urgently at last, his nails scratching  FP’s scalp pleasantly as he adjusts his hold. “I’m almost- I’m going to-” 

FP makes a low noise of assent deep in his throat and Fred comes, gasping FP’s name to the ceiling. Wiping his mouth, FP rises up to kiss Fred on the lips, using a handful of tissues to clean him off before he re-buttons and smooths out the skirt of his kilt. 

“Let me,” says Fred breathlessly, pointing to the bulge in FP’s pants. 

“It’s okay,” says FP softly, gently lacing their fingers, but Fred abruptly grips hard and yanks him in hard so that his lips are inches from FP’s ear.

“I wanna fuck you,” says Fred quietly in his ear, a low growl. “But not in Hiram’s bed.” 

FP’s breath catches, his cock twitching hard enough to make him whimper. Fred reaches down and gently strokes him through the spandex, leaning up and nibbling on FP’s earlobe. 

“I know where,” says FP huskily, fireworks flashing before his eyes as Fred’s warm hand touches him. “If you really want to--to get out of here.” 

“Take me,” growls Fred. “Anywhere.” 

* * *

They run back through the cemetery like little kids, laughing in the dim glow of moonlight. Fred keeps breathlessly yelling out the names of the gravestones they pass. When they’re in a cluster of B names, FP spins around and catches Fred in his arms as he plows into him. 

“Here, here,” says FP quickly, falling back and dragging Fred down with him onto the muddy, leaf-strewn ground. 

“Here!?” yelps Fred, his bare knees damp from the dirt. “I thought we were going home!” 

“Here,” repeats FP urgently, tugging down the waistband of his football pants. He tilts his head back until it hits tombstone, grabbing Fred’s hand and dragging it toward himself. Fred resists. 

“I’m not fucking you on a grave!” 

“It’s Halloween,” FP moans, already hard again. The night air is cool and fresh in his lungs. “Live a little.” 

A long, sharp moan pierces the air. FP sits up a bit. 

“Was that you?” 

“No,” says Fred nervously, his face suddenly very white. “It wasn’t me.” 

The sound comes again, high and loud and almost pained. Fred jumps to his feet, his bare chest glowing pale in the moonlight under a few smears of dirt. FP sits up on the ground, feeling unsteady and confused. 

“FP?” Fred whispers. “I want to go.” 

“It’s just a cat or something, Fred.” 

A cry, then, loud and unmistakably human. FP bolts to his feet, yanking his pants up and crashing into Fred, who had started to run in the opposite direction. Tangled together, they collapse over a tombstone and collapse to the muddy ground. Fred screams. 

“Who’s there?” a sharp female voice demands. 

FP climbs to his feet, using a tombstone to haul himself up. His crop top has ridden uncomfortably up to his armpits, and he yanks it a quarter of an inch down, suddenly feeling exposed. His eye lands on a brilliant patch of white in the dark smear of the cemetery, about a row away from where they’d fallen. 

FP’s mouth drops open as he recognizes what he’s seeing. It’s Penelope Blossom, her white dress pushed up to her thighs, laying on her back in front of an ornate tombstone spelling out the word BLOSSOM. And kneeling in front of her, half invisible in her dark clothes -

“Penny Peabody?” asks FP. 

The blonde Serpent reaches for her belt in one sharp movement and yanks out a switchblade knife, it’s long silver handle glinting in the moonlight. Penelope sits up with a bored look on her face, twigs and leaves tangled in her hair. She looks mildly impressed at the knife rather than any kind of frightened. 

“Don’t get any closer, Forsythe,” Penny warns, holding the knife out. 

“What the fuck,” FP hears Fred whisper from somewhere behind him. 

FP raises his hands slowly. “Look, we were just-” 

“It’s your lucky day.” Penny’s eyes are liquid in the dark. The hand holding the knife never wavers. “Take your twink boyfriend and get out of here and I won’t carve you like a Halloween pumpkin.” 

“Fine,” replies FP, drumming up all his bravado as though he isn't barely covered by some very thin spandex and a layer of leafy grime. He takes a step back and hooks an arm around Fred. “We’re going.” 

“Go!” shouts Penny, and Fred and FP take off at a trot. As they hurry down the path toward the gates, FP’s hand still carefully pressed to the centre of Fred’s bare back, he hears her voice issuing over the tombstones one last time. 

“Happy Halloween, you assholes!” 


End file.
